


The Comforts of Hot Chocolate and Fireside Readings

by DulcimerGecko



Series: Playing in prettyvk's 'James Holmes Chronicles' 'verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hot Chocolate, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft being a good uncle, Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach, The James Holmes Chronicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko
Summary: “The storm woke me up,” James said with a deliberately casual shrug, hoping that he sounded calmer than he felt.  “It’s nothing, really.”Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  “I will not insult you by saying that you are a terrible liar, James, because we both know that you are, in fact, a rather skilled one.  Instead, I will say that I deal with enough subterfuge, intrigue, and misdirection at work as it is.  I do not enjoy having the same brought into my home.”
Series: Playing in prettyvk's 'James Holmes Chronicles' 'verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1096776
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	The Comforts of Hot Chocolate and Fireside Readings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettyvk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The James Holmes Chronicles - Coda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385050) by [prettyvk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk). 



> Another one for the lovely [prettyvk](https://prettyvk.tumblr.com/) who graciously continues to let me play around in her fantastic AU.
> 
> This story is set some during the ['The James Holmes Chronicles - Coda'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385050) short stories.

~*~

James bolted upright in bed, breathing hard and clutching the sheets and blankets to his chest as he frantically scanned the unfamiliar room. He could feel his pulse thudding as adrenaline flooded his system, urging him to run, to hide, but not scream. Never scream.

_If you don’t stop screaming, brat, I’ll **give** you something to scream about..._

James hunched forward, squeezing his eyes shut as he concentrated on taking deep breaths, the way John had taught him to. Sebastian was _dead_. Father too. His dads wouldn’t punish him if he screamed, or cried, or wet his bed in his sleep like he’d accidentally done a few times before on especially bad nights. He was _safe_ now. 

Thunder roared outside, making James jump as his heart tried to lodge itself in his throat. The shockwave was loud enough to make the glass rattle in the panes and right on its heels came the harsh whip crack of another lightning bolt, tearing through the sky and painting the guest room in shades of grey and blue-white.

Pressing his lips together, James reached for his phone that he’d left on the nightstand with a shaking hand. The screen awakened with a touch, creating a small pool of light that drove back the darker shadows. 3:00 a.m. Far too late (or early, depending on how one looked at it) to text anybody for reassurance just because he had a nightmare and was afraid of a thunderstorm. No matter how bad they were. 

A whisper in the back of his mind pointed out that Sherlock wouldn’t mind; his dad wasn’t exactly known for having any sort of a normal sleep schedule, but pride had James pushing back the thought with clenched teeth. He was _fourteen_ , soon to be fifteen, not _four._ The whole point of his sessions with Doctor Osborn—as uncomfortable as they sometimes were—was to help him learn to cope better with his nightmares and panic attacks.

Lightning flashed again and James instinctively cringed before blowing out a frustrated breath and forcing himself to sit upright. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, smearing away the gathering moisture that had yet to fall. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. The only times he had any success falling asleep again after a nightmare were when he curled up on the sofa while Sherlock serenaded him on the violin. 

But Sherlock and John were both in Belgium investigating a rash of thefts involving bee hives and wouldn’t be back for days, which was why he was staying at his uncle’s house in the first place.

James sighed even more heavily as he resigned himself to staying awake and pushed the covers back so he could climb out of bed. He shivered at the air’s chill and reached for the socks he’d kicked off earlier and the dressing gown he’d received as a birthday gift from John. The dark green silk was soft, warm, and smelled faintly of home: a comforting (if peculiar) blend of woodsmoke, formaldehyde, tea, takeaway, Mrs. Hudson’s different perfumes, rosin and old paper. By contrast, Uncle Mycroft’s home smelt almost...sterile. There were no poncy soaps in the bathrooms, none of the scented candles or vases of flowers that Molly decorated with, no plates of still-warm, fresh-baked goods wafting their temptation through the air. The residence smelled of wood polish, the faint, lemony scent of cleaners, and little else. It was disconcerting. Almost like... 

James swallowed hard and bit down on his bottom lip, ruthlessly banishing the thought before it could fully take form. He was James Phillip _Holmes_. He was spending a long weekend with his Uncle Mycroft. When his dads finished solving their current case, they would pick him up and they’d all go back home to Baker Street where John would type up the case for the blog and title it something silly that would put Sherlock in a proper strop. Perhaps ‘The Hive Heist’ or ‘The Bee Burglary’ or maybe ‘The Honey Holdup.’ Sherlock would either play his violin, or read over John’s shoulder and offer less-than-constructive criticism until John got fed up and kissed him into silence. Meanwhile, he would help Mrs. Hudson make tea for everybody and snack on whatever treats she’d brought up with her while they waited for their takeaway to be delivered. Then he and his dads would curl up on the couch together and watch crap telly until they were ready to fall asleep.

Dressing gown belted firmly and feet shod in warm socks, James padded out of the bedroom and down the hall in search of something to pass the hours until dawn. He’d seen a television downstairs; crap telly was something John swore by as a distraction, (though most of the distraction came in the form of Sherlock yelling out his deductions about the people on the screen). He was getting better at deducing people, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun without Sherlock to either confirm and/or correct his observations, or listen to John loudly complaining about yet another show being ruined. 

_Maybe a book from the library, and a cup of hot chocolate,_ James pondered as he descended the staircase. John wasn’t here to make him drink chamomile tea, so he might as well drink something he actually _liked_. 

Molly often bought him hot chocolate from the cafeteria as a treat when she knew Sherlock would be busy in the morgue for a while. Since learning of his sleeping troubles, John had made a habit of including a few sachets of Belgian Chocolate instant cocoa mix or a canister of Horlick's in the basket when he did the shopping for James to drink instead of tea. They weren't great, but John had taken to getting huffy if he saw James drinking tea, especially past dinertime, (herbal teas didn't count as proper tea).

When James had first protested the change, (more out of principal than anything else), Sherlock had tried pointing out to John that cocoa, like tea, contained caffeine, thereby rendering the purpose of reducing James' evening tea intake moot. He'd also shown John several articles from the Lancet and the BMJ debunking the myth that caffeine could stunt a child's growth. Unfortunately, the resultant expression on John's face had quickly made Sherlock drop his arguments and concede that perhaps James _would_ benefit from a temporary switch to Horlicks or instant cocoa.

Of course, the best hot chocolate was made on the stovetop with fresh milk and chocolate syrup and garnished with either whipped cream or marshmallows. Mrs. Hudson had been the one to teach him to add a splash of vanilla and a dash of cinnamon to the milk while it was heating to diffuse the flavours throughout the final beverage. James licked his lips at the thought. Hopefully the house had a well-stocked kitchen.

Except...had he ever actually _seen_ his uncle cook anything? James paused with one hand on the banister while he combed back through his memories with a faint frown of concentration. Perhaps...not? The few times they’d joined Mycroft for dinner at his house, the four of them had dined on meals served on covered plates from restaurants that often had a Michelin star or two to their names.

In the earlier excitement of Sherlock whirling around the room lecturing excitedly about royal jelly, cartels and pollen, John trying to pack their suitcases, Mrs. Hudson’s scolding Sherlock about walking on the furniture, and James reassuring them all that he’d be fine staying with Mycroft for a few days because he really didn’t want to miss Laure’s upcoming opening night, he’d completely forgotten to ask about meals. Lunch wasn’t a problem since it was served at school, or he could buy something from a chippy. Dinner would probably be eaten in restaurants like it had been tonight, or else brought by one of Mycroft’s drivers, but what about breakfast? 

Was there some sort of service that delivered tea and toast to wealthy bureaucrats in the mornings? Did his uncle use Ocado for groceries? Maybe he should use the emergency bank card his dads had given him and ask one of Mycroft’s drivers to take him by the shops. He could pick up milk and eggs, some bread and jam, maybe a box of breakfast cereal or a packet of bacon. Things that were easy to cook with a minimal mess to clean up. It was one thing to leave a stack of rinsed plates in the sink at home. The kitchen here had all the ruthless sterility of a morgue with its stainless steel surfaces and while-tile backsplash.

James rounded the corner and stopped in surprise, his musings cut short. He’d expected the library to be empty, but the light streaming through the crack at the base of the closed doors made it clear it wasn’t. James wavered, wondering if he would be interrupting anything important, or if he would even be welcome. He was about to turn away when a sudden voice from the other side of the door made him jump.

“Come in, James.” 

James looked down at his feet. The socks should have muffled his footsteps, so how had his uncle heard him? He glanced up, wondering if there was a hidden camera in the ceiling somewhere or if his uncle just had ears like a bat, before giving it up with a sigh. Easing open the door, James slid inside to a room full of warmth and comfort. 

Mycroft’s house was far, far tidier than the cozy clutter of 221b, but the library managed to be inviting, nonetheless. Well-worn leather furniture invited visitors to sprawl. Firelight gleamed off the polished, dark wood of the bookcases, catching on the curiosities scattered throughout the room: a preserved _Morpho peleides_ framed behind glass, a single pheasant tail-feather standing upright in a blue glass vase, a piece of dried honeycomb, and a bust of Shakespeare.

The home's owner was sitting behind his desk looking as off-duty as James had ever seen him: shirt-sleeves rolled up to his forearms, collar unbuttoned, tie loosened from its usual, perfect Windsor knot, suit jacket draped neatly over the chair's back, and phone turned face-down on the table. A silver tea service with a single cup and an open laptop were sitting off to one side, and several file folders containing heavily-marked up pages were spread out on the blotter in front of him.

Based on what Father had told him, James knew the papers likely had something to do with some sort of national security issue, or maybe a dossier on a government official, but James knew better than to try and read them. Even though he was pretty sure his uncle would never hurt him, he had no desire to ever find out how dangerous the man Father had called the Ice Man could be.

Mycroft tilted his head to one side in a bird-like gesture as he watched James approach, no doubt deducing him the same way that Dad did. Only Sherlock’s deductions were full of flash, a rapid-fire monologue of words as he spat out facts like bullets from a machine gun. His uncle’s deductions were quieter...not so much like the ticking of a clock, because that was too ordinary. More like...the unseen gears that drove the motions of the Silver Swan automaton housed in the Bowes Museum at Barnard Castle. Outwardly serene and elegant, calmly performing tasks, with no sign of the countless mechanisms and calculations that preceded every gesture or action.

“Out for a nocturnal promenade? It seems a bit late for that, even considering the no-doubt terrible sleeping habits my brother has taught you,” Mycroft observed aloud in a dry tone.

James met Mycroft’s gaze, unperturbed by the observation or the mocking barb directed at Sherlock. As bad as Sherlock was about showing affection and concern, Mycroft was far, far worse. Most people watching the exchange would see a snooty, intimidating man looking more than a little put out by the interruption of his work. But James had learned to read his uncle’s micro-expressions and could easily detect the undertone of concern disguised by the sharpness of Mycroft’s words. The simple fact that Mycroft had paused in his work and invited James' interruption was telling of his concern and affection in and of itself.

“The storm woke me up,” James explained with a deliberately casual shrug, hoping that he sounded calmer than he felt. “It’s nothing, really. I was thinking I might get a book and read for a bit.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I will not insult you by saying that you are a terrible liar, James, because we both know that you are, in fact, a rather skilled one. Instead, I will say that I deal with enough subterfuge, intrigue, and misdirection at work as it is. I do not enjoy having the same brought into my home.”

James flushed, his stomach twisted in embarrassment but there was no hiding from a Holmes’ observational skills. “Nightmare,” he finally confessed. “I won’t be able to go back to sleep tonight.”

“Ah. I see.” Mycroft folded his hands in front of his lips, his expression considering as he gazed at James.

James struggled not to fidget under the weight of his uncle's gaze.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Mycroft ordered abruptly, sweeping the papers and his laptop into a drawer and closing it. There was a soft thunking sound as some sort of metal bolt automatically slid into place to lock the drawer shut. “I shall return momentarily,” Mycroft continued, standing up and striding from the room.

James blinked, completely caught off guard by the command. Make himself comfortable? Why? He'd been telling the truth about planning on choosing a book to take back to his room but... James spared another look at the door Mycroft had exited then did as he'd been bid. There were two, oversized, oxblood leather chairs flanking the lit fireplace with a round, Victorian end table holding a stained-glass reading lamp stationed between them. A metal basket tucked near the hearth contained a soft-looking, wool, green, blue and yellow patterned tartan throw—the sort of thing one might drape over one's legs to keep warm while reading for extended periods of time. Pulling it free, James wrapped it around himself before curling up in the closer of the two chairs to await his uncle's return. 

It didn’t take long. When Mycroft reentered the room, he was carrying a silver tray that contained what took James a moment to recognize as an antique, porcelain chocolate pot, two cups, and a plate of shortbread. James stared in surprise as his uncle first set the tray down on the table between the two chairs and then fetched a very old book from one of the bookcases lining the walls. The book was bound in yellow leather with gold gilt decorating the spine and edges of the pages that caught the light.

“You’re not the only Holmes to have nightmares,” Mycroft said by way of explanation as he seated himself and carefully poured for them both. “Sherlock and I have both had our share of...unpleasant experiences over the years that often make it difficult for us to sleep. Even as a child, though, my brother was prone to frightening dreams.” He handed James one of the steaming cups and saucers. “Biscuit?” he offered, holding up a piece of shortbread with a pair of silver tongs.

“Please,” James said, holding his plate out gingerly.

“You have met our mother, so I’m sure you can conclude how inclined to maternal coddling she was, or wasn’t, as the case turned out to be.” 

James nodded, waiting until Mycroft took a sip from his cup first before doing so himself. The hot chocolate was smooth and velvety on his tongue, much richer than what he and Mrs. Hudson made, and redolent with hints of honey and frutiness. The shortbread, when he bit into it, was crisp, buttery and just sweet enough to offset the slight bitterness of the cocoa.

“The nannies our mother hired were more concerned with keeping my baby brother out of trouble—an exhausting affair, as Doctor Watson can no doubt testify as to. If a nanny caught Sherlock roaming about at night, or if he awoke our mother by climbing into her bed, Sherlock would inevitably be scolded, escorted back to his room, and made to stay there. An unpleasant situation for all parties involved, as I'm sure you can imagine. Consequently, Sherlock took to climbing into _my_ bed and waking me up when he couldn’t sleep. I soon discovered the best way to calm him down and _keep_ him quiet was to read to him under the covers by the light of a battery-powered lantern...almost as if we were hiding inside a tent." Mycroft took another sip of his hot chocolate and met James' gaze with a trace of mirth twinkling in his eyes. "You may not be aware of this, but when he was a child, Sherlock wanted to be a pirate.”

“A pirate?!”

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s smile held just the faintest hint of fondness. “As such, his career ambitions rather influenced his choice of reading material.” He set his cup down on the side table and tapped the book in his lap. “This happens to be my brother’s favourite book as a child. It’s a bit out-of-date now, even more so than then, but it does maintain a certain sense of...nostalgia for me,” Mycroft explained, picking up the tome and offering it to James.

James put his cup down and accepted the volume. It was heavier than he expected and smelt of old paper and dust. James opened the cover gingerly and turned to the book's title page, taking care not to tear the fragile paper. “A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates and aso their Policies, Discipline and Government, from their First Rise and Settlement in the Island of Providence, in 1717, to the Present Year 1724. With the Remarkable Actions and Adventures of the two Female Pyrates, Mary Read and Anne Bonny...To Which is Added, a Short Abstract of the Statute and Civil Law, in Relation to Pyracy, by Captain Charles Johnson...printed in 1724,” James read aloud. He turned to Mycroft, his expression puzzled. “Statues and civil law? I would have thought Dad would have preferred adventure stories.”

Mycroft’s expression was a mixture of amused and challenging over the rim of his cup. “Think, James. Do you really think my brother would be one for fantasy past a certain age? Why do you think he preferred nonfiction as he grew older? To the point that he deleted many works of classic British literature?”

James pursed his lips as he thought for a moment, contemplating all of the different things he’d learned about Sherlock over the past two years before looking up with a smile as he handed the book back. “Dad decided that most pirates were idiots and by studying nonfiction, he could learn where they went wrong and how not to get caught.”

“Exactly.” Mycroft awarded James with one of his rare smiles of full approval. “Shall I begin?”

James nodded, snuggling deeper into the leather chair and reclaiming his hot chocolate as he settled in to listen.

Mycroft set his cup down and turned the key of the lamp, casting a warm puddle of light over his chair. He cleared his throat, sounding just a touch self-conscious. “Page A 2. The Preface. Having taken more than ordinary Pains in collecting the Materials which compose the following History, we could not be satisfied with our selves, if any Thing were wanting to it, which might render it entirely satisfactory to the Publick: It is for this Reason we have subjoined to the Work, a short Abstract of the Laws now in Force against Pyrates, and made Choice of some particular Cases, (the most curious we could meet with) which have been heretofore tried, by which it will appear what Actions have, and what have not been adjudged Pyracy...”

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> The book Mycroft is reading is a real book. It can be found [here](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/40580/40580-h/40580-h.htm) on Project Gutenberg.


End file.
